


The Man With the Silver Arm

by Hatsage7



Category: Celtic Mythology, Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Gen, Jim Fitzpatrick's The Silver Arm, Nodens (if you even know who that one is i'll be impressed), Nuada (kind of), The Brave and the Bold: Batman and Wonder Woman, Tyr (sort of), because it's what i used for visual reference lmao, i also didn't know there were tags for mythos outside of greek!, i would highly reccommend googling Balor from that comic, i'm delighted!, not plot relevant but the art kicks ass it's cool give it a look
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26917684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatsage7/pseuds/Hatsage7
Summary: Bedivere’s biography lays out the life of a devoted servant, a knight of the realm… but just a normal human being. He was a good man and a faithful warrior who lingered in the background, who fought in no glorious battles until the last one, and was by his king’s side when the king died.After returning Excalibur, as commanded, he lived a long, quiet life.Even as a Servant, he is merely a variation on a theme. His arm may share the same name as the arm of Nuada, Celtic war god, but it’s merely one of many possible outcomes and many possible forms of the legendary sword....but what if that story was only half-true?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	The Man With the Silver Arm

**Author's Note:**

> // In this work, this Bedivere lived as an "if that did not returned King Arthur's holy sword", and King Arthur died without ascertaining the relinquishing of the holy sword.
> 
> As atonement, he kept on living during a long time for the sake of "returning the holy sword this time for sure", and eventually ran out of strength at Avalon.
> 
> // … Merlin gave him - a mere knight - the power to fight against the other Knights of the Round Table, but it was something that would shave off his life in the end. Still, said power was by no means inferior to that of the Knights of the Round Table. …
> 
> // While it has the same name as the Divine Construct employed by the Celtic war god, its true identity is that of "the holy sword Excalibur that he failed to return".
> 
> \-- Profile Descriptions for Bedivere, FGO
> 
> (A very, very brief look into the history of Bedivere's arm and what he did after the Battle of Camlann.
> 
> ...by which i mean, i rewrote Bedivere's entire fucking character to make him a literal war god bc i kept thinking about Airgetlam and from there everything spiraled horribly out of control. i also can't stop writing short, sweet fics for my own enjoyment and then immediately writing an extra 10k words for them bc the people who are nice enough to comment occasionally feed my brain worms with an incredible idea, so *this* is it, line in the sand! enjoy!!!
> 
> visual ref for Balor: https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/marvel_dc/images/4/44/The_Brave_and_the_Bold_Batman_and_Wonder_Woman_Vol_1_5_Textless.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20180620120236)

_I was defeated, with no apparent defenses left. I had always been a better general than a duelist, truth be told, and Balor One-Eye was the largest, cruelest, most skilled warrior of a race whose defining cultural traits were being large, cruel, and fierce in battle._

_Balor just laughed, baring his filed teeth to the dark sky. The fire from his army’s advance and his own demonic eye had scoured the land, and filled the air with smoke black enough to darken the sun. The tide of destruction was woefully apparent from our position, a flat clearing atop a mountain, the place where Balor and I had chosen to fight while our armies clashed by the sea. I had seen many an apocalypse before that day, so understand that it’s not hyperbole when I say it almost seemed like the end of the world._

_Almost._

_I rose to my feet while Balor continued to cackle, long bone-white hair fluttering victoriously behind him, a war banner unfurled in triumph. What he saw as my futile last stand only made him laugh more._

_Suddenly, his eyes shot open, his wicked eye burning with hellish red fire, and he slammed that pillar of iron he called a sword into the ground. He would have smashed me into a red paste had I not rolled out of the way at the last instant._

_Balor spoke, taunting me with that voice that crackled like coal in a furnace. “Ye cannot mean tae keep fighting me, half-a-king!”_

_“I do.” It was my duty to the people, the Tuatha de Danann, who had chosen me as their champion, to fight in the face of overwhelming odds. They were doing the same on the battlefield below us; I could surely do no less._

_Balor laughed again, a brief snort of disdain. “Ye have na sword. It lays useless in the fields where yer broken body will soon join it. Na mace, na spear. Nae even a dagger! Even a half-king should know better than tae humiliate himself in the face of certain death.” He turned to face me, the tip of his weapon carving a trough in the dirt. “Kneel, and I promise only tae_ **_burn_ ** _yer body and leave ye as crowfood till ye die. It will be agony fer ye, but better that than what my men will do, when I toss them yer body sans yer remaining three limbs.”_

_I didn’t allow his threats and insults to unbalance me. I had been attacked with crueler words in the past, after all. “I mean to fight you, Balor. You will be the one face-down in the dirt when all this is over, I can promise you that.”_

_He snarled now. “Enough! Yer impudence fails to amuse me. You have_ **_no weapon_** _! No hope, no chance!”_

_And though it was not behavior becoming of a king, I laughed in his face, unable to hold it back any longer. “That’s where you’re wrong. I am surprised that you, of all people would underestimate me.”_

_His eyes narrowed, and the evil eye flared again, fire and poison hungry to be unleashed. “And do ye mean by_ **_that_ ** _, half-a-king?”_

_“Balor of the Evil Eye should well know: a warrior’s body is a tool. And the body of the god of war --”_

_I lunged forward, catching the monster off-guard as I drove Airgetlam into his stomach, through his coal-black armor._

_“-- is a weapon!”_

_Balor howled in pain as my arm, glowing a brilliant gold with divine strength, pierced his stomach. I thrust it as deeply as I could, up and behind his ribcage. Though it had sunk in all the way to the elbow, I still could not grasp his heart to crush it, for Balor was the leader of the Fomorians for good reason. His body was knotted with muscles, denser than any tree or mountain. The same power that cleaved through monsters big enough to swallow carriages whole was stuck fast in the bulk of Balor the Smiter._

_Indeed, even as his cries of pain rang out, I was forced to wrestle his sword to the ground lest he smite me with it. It took all the strength in my left arm, and, I’m ashamed to say, all of my attention as well._

_So distracted was I by the sword that I took the full force of Balor’s evil eye. An arc of red-hot fire shot out from it, like the fuel of the sun billowing out of his socket and onto my body._

_I was bare-chested that day, for the Celts did not fight in full plate armor, and I was… somewhat dubious of the skin-tight clothing certain warriors among them wore into battle. Needless to say that my oath of protection sworn when I was still a humble knight had protected me against most weapons as well as any steel._

_I have never been more glad for that oath, for the primal hate of Balor’s foul emission would have been hot enough to melt any metal armor and cook me alive. Bare as I was, I “merely” had to endure the agony as he broiled my chest. Give thanks that you have never had to endure such fire and pain as I endured that day, nor the nauseating smell of burning human flesh and hair._

_Plus, he burnt my beard, which I had spent some years growing. I don't think I'll ever be able to grow it back.  
_

_To this day, I still don’t know how I didn’t pass out from the pain. I’m not the sort of warrior who can continue to keep standing and fighting until their body realizes that they have died, as you well know. But I could not fail my people, and I continued to pour my power through my arm into Balor’s wretched body, searing him as lethally as he was roasting me._

_In the end, it was Balor who broke the stalemate. He stopped trying to pull Airgetlam out of his stomach to cast back his arm, winding up a backhand blow that stuck me with the sound and force of a thunderclap. I was sent flying meters away by his monstrous strength, my arm still covered in viscera. I hit the ground like so much dead weight and lacked the strength to get back up._

_Balor collapsed to one knee, thick black blood spilling from his wound… but he was still able to fight. He began to laugh again, having proved to all the gods and the Morrigan herself that there was no foe he could not overcome. He staggered to his feet, raising his fists to the sky in triumph. His booming laughter now echoed for all to hear, signalling a change in fortune in our battle, and his baleful eye pierced the heavens. The pillar of red light he cast for all to see, brazenly challenging the universe itself to strike him down._

_It was not the universe that sent a small, smooth stone hurtling into his eye, but his grandson Lugh._

_The boy had left his place on the battlefield, trusting in the strength of his comrades to hold the line. With only his trusty sling and a pouch full of stones, he had made his way up the mountain to fight Balor -- for it was a fight between leaders of men, and Lugh was not merely a general, but the true leader of his people._

_I had merely been chosen to fill the role for a short time, and lying there in the dirt, inches from death… I couldn’t have been prouder to witness him step into the light._

_Balor roared, more in fury than in pain. No stone could put out his demonic eye, even one cast by his kin’s divine hand. Still, he was in abject agony, and his powerful legs carried him over to Lugh’s hiding spot, shaking the earth with his rage._

_Such was his anger, that he had forgotten about me, “blinded” if you will to my own indomitable warrior spirit. I lashed out with Airgetlam and seized his shin, crushing the bone and piercing the skin._

_He screamed in pain, high-pitched with the desperation that only an animal who knows its life is over can have; the sound was quickly cut off as a second stone whistled through the air and into his throat. His windpipe crumpled with a wretched, wet sucking sound. His hands flew to his throat, and he staggered backwards, feeling an emotion he had never once had in his life: fear._

_His broken leg collapsed beneath him, like an old tree snapping in a storm, and he went tumbling over the edge. Rocks followed behind him as he slammed into the mountain over and over again on his way down, growing quieter and quieter until the last wet “squelch” as he finally hit the bottom. And the tyrant Balor One-Eye was slain._

“...and that was when I finally passed out!”

Gareth sat up with a distressed look on her face. “That’s _it!?_ ”

Bedivere had to laugh. “Well, I suppose there’s a little bit more to tell, but he fell down a mountain and I fell unconscious. What else do you want me to say?”

She spluttered like a fish out of water. “You could -- there’s the whole -- wh-what about the _army_ of _monsters_ invading Ireland!?”

“Oh, well, naturally after killing Balor, Lugh went back down to rally his forces and drive the Fomorian army back into the sea. I can’t recall what happened to Balor’s body, but I seem to remember a distinctly grisly tale about cutting off his head and using the power of the eye to make a shield. I believe that Fionn fellow wields it, as Perseus with Medusa’s head in a very different time and place… but my knowledge is awfully lacking when it comes to the Mediterranean pantheons, and I might have easily mixed up those details…” 

“Okay, and _then_ what happened? They didn’t just leave you on the mountain, right?”

Bedivere leaned forward conspiratorially. “Ahhh, now _that’s_ the interesting part. I had come to a conclusion several centuries prior about what needed to happen to me after my death, for I knew that Ireland would be where I finally died. I made a journey into Gaul and spoke with La Dame du Lac --”

“Wait, wait,” Gareth said, waving her hands, “you went to _France?_ ”

“Gaul,” he corrected gently. “It wasn’t a very eventful trip. People kept mistaking me for one god or another and asking me to smite people, it was a little tedious. The region didn’t get interesting until after Charlemange. In any case, I had been on good terms with her before she had left Britain, and knowing her talent with prophecy, I asked her if she would be able to retrieve and care for my arm when I died, as she was doing with Excalibur and Lancelot’s sword.”

“Ardonight?”

He sighed. “You know, I’m still not certain the sword is actually called that? I asked her the same question as you did just now, and she responded in that infuriating way that only fae can. She strongly implied that it was originally named “Secace”, but history remembers it as Ardonight, so the causal force of belief may have rewritten --” He forced himself to stop, then sighed again. “The fae have an infuriating relationship with linear time. I would strongly recommend not getting involved with time travel under any circumstances.”

“A bit late for that.” Gareth gestured around them to the walls of Chaldea, an organization that had not only summoned them to the 21st century, but that was also capable of sending them to different eras as part of the ongoing effort to save humanity.

Bedivere smiled. “I suppose you’re right! In any case, she made a joke about having to brush the dust off her calendar, which I didn’t quite understand until after I had been cast back in time.”

“After a dog nearly killed you during the end of the world.”

“The dog was named Garm, and Ragnarok wasn’t the end of the world! If you keep interrupting, I’ll let you tell the story instead.” He paused for a moment, the two of them sitting in silence. “Wonderful!” 

“As I mentioned earlier, the destruction of realms that occured during Ragnarok cast many of the beings there back in time. I spent the next several decades in ancient Ireland, and while I would have loved to go back to being a pastoral god again, I was still in the “Tyr” headspace. I... more or less became their god of war and king.” By accident, because he was still a knight at heart and had a hard time saying no to people asking for help, but it always felt a bit petty when he made that distinction.

He continued, skipping over the messy years of his reign he had just relayed, and spoke on what happened after the battle with the Fomorians. “Naturally, I died of my wounds within a few days, fighting to stay alive long enough to get my affairs in order and formally announce Lugh as my successor. Technically, the former high king, Bres the half-Fomorian, was still alive, and he was certainly stupid enough to have made a play for the throne -- it would have been a mess. I stayed alive to sort _that_ out, and then was laid to rest with full rites. Du Lac retrieved my arm, thanks to her "unique" relationship with the flow of time. As requested, she took care of it and gave it to Merlin centuries later.” 

“So in the end, you see, he was telling the truth when he said that the arm came from a Celtic war god -- it just so happens that that war god was me! And that’s why it fit perfectly, despite being made of metal!”

Gareth sat there in wide-eyed understanding. “Wow.... But, wait, if the arm came from Nuada... and _you_ were Nuada... then where did the original arm --”

"Ah, don't ask! You'll only get a headache, I promise. For now, it always existed, a universal constant as reliable as gravity.

They were both silent for a long moment. "I think that might just be the most absurd, frustrating thing I've ever heard."

Bedivere nodded in agreement. “So I hope you can appreciate why I tell others the _simpler_ story. The one where I held on to Excalibur for far too long, until I redeemed myself in the end, and the arm is just a unique form of the sword.”

“But, Bedivere…” 

“Look, the story doesn’t have to make sense. It’s worked so far, and frankly, it’s more plausible for the divine glowing sword to turn into a divine glowing _arm_ than it is for it to turn into a water gun.”

“Not that, you joker!’ Gareth swatted him on the arm, heavy metal armor clanking harmlessly off Airgetlam. “It’s just… you’ve done so much cool stuff! Like, really impressive things. More than the big battles, you talked about travelling to different lands, and helping people make peace with each other when they just wanted to fight… even the King couldn’t do that.” She looked up at him with those big, sweet, puppy-dog eyes. “So why don’t you tell people about it? I know Master and the others would love to know…! Aren’t you proud?”

...Bedivere reached out and ruffled her hair. It was a complicated question, and he needed a moment to consider his answer. “I… accomplished many things after Camelot fell. But I wasn’t a knight any longer. My journeys… I had seen so much by the end that the days of my youth seemed like a distant memory. And now, even if it’s a little painful, I’ve been given another chance to be a knight again.” He chuckled, a bit ruefully. “I don’t mind telling you that it was _painful_ going back to a wooden prosthetic after all those years with Airgetlam. It was like losing my arm all over again.”

“Bedivere…”

He held up a hand. “None of that. I’ve had longer to process my feelings than the others had even been alive. I have less of a weight to bear than _any_ of the other knights of the Round -- including you, for that matter. Have you spoken with Lancelot about… anything, I suppose?” 

She looked down at the floor, clearly uncomfortable. “N-not about… you know. But we have talked over breakfast, once or… t-twice…”

“My apologies. But I hope you understand that, as you might be reluctant to air your feelings with Lancelot, I am similarly reluctant to talk about what I did after Camlann with anyone, even Master. I like being an ordinary knight again, and I would like to keep it that way.”

“B-but --”

“It’s pleasant to be seen as a “normal human”. As you say… I did what even the king was not able to do. My achievements would reopen old wounds, and I don’t want to be responsible for that. My story doesn't need to be told.”

She looked back up at him. “Then… why did you tell me?”

“Because you asked, and because I resolved a very long time ago to always tell you the truth, Gareth. It really was the very least I could do.” He smiled at her fondly. She had been a little sister to all of the knights back then, as Gawain was a big brother to all. Telling stories was not one of his strengths, but he had been welcome for any excuse to spend time with her… and perhaps, a part of him had been longing to tell another.

Gareth stood up suddenly, determination ablaze in her eyes and smile. “Thank you, Bedivere! I know what to do now!”

He blinked at her. “Y… you do?”

“Yeah!” She nodded enthusiastically. If she had been wearing her helm, the visor surely would have slammed shut. “You said it! If I can talk with Lancelot -- y-you can talk to the King! Our Artoria, I mean,” she hastily clarified. There were enough versions of the King of Knights to warrant it.

Still… “Gareth, you _asked_ specifically about the relation my arm had to the Celts. It’s not exactly the sort of thing that I can just bring up --”

Gareth shook her head, steadfast. “Master loves to hear about people’s past! Once I… um, t-talk with Lancelot… a-and you go on another quest with Master, you should tell her the _real_ story about your past.” She paused for a moment. “Actually, maybe don’t tell her about all the time you spent fishing and farming before becoming a viking? That part was kinda boring.”

“‘Kinda boring’? Gareth, I’m insulted! It was _exceedingly_ boring, which was rather the point.”

She scoffed, and began to jog off out of the room and down the halls. “Okay whatever I think you’re cooler than that and you can be a normal human and also a hero and you should tell the others because they care about you and you won’t hurt their feelings but I can’t talk because I need to go find Lancelot bye!”

Bedivere blinked. Then he leaned back in his chair and sighed.

Technically, he hadn’t promised Gareth that he _would_ speak to the others… ah, but that was no excuse. He wasn’t going to let her down.

He held Airgetlam up to the lights. He flexed his fingers, drawing them into a fist, then stretching them back out. The arm responded as if it were flesh, though the light was shining through it like crystal.

It occurred to him that it was through his bond with Ritsuka that his arm and armor had improved. He had gotten stronger, and so had his arm, rising back to the level of power it had only been when he was a god, in the prime of his might. Surely a person who did that much for him deserved the truth...?

“Perhaps,” he murmured aloud. “Or perhaps it would be best for the silver arm to stay buried, as it always has.”

...he suddenly didn't know if he wa satisfied with that answer anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> me: it’s kinda weird that DW made a point of giving bedi Airgetlam specifically. like, it could have just been a different cool magical silver arm, but they went out of their way to make it one with really specific mythological and pop cultural connotations.
> 
> me:
> 
> me: wAit a mINUTE
> 
> major upd8's have been in editing hell, will hopefully release those soon rather than stuff nobody but me asked for lol


End file.
